Never Forgotten

by Stacey Nash

  Contents

  Prologue

  ACT I: The Storm Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  ACT II: The Tempest Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  ACT III: The Eye Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Other books in the Collective Series

  Copyright

  Prologue

  This is my life now.

  The same every day. Well, almost every day. Today, it’s Wednesday. Wednesdays and Saturdays are different.

  On those days, he comes.

  I look from the door to the window and back again. My whole body tense with the anticipation of him and the show I’ll have to put on. The show that I don’t care. That I’m strong. I’m unflinching, when on the inside I’m absolutely not.

  The pale walls—a creamy-dirty pink—are a reflection of my constant mood: dull, monotonous. But I have no regrets. I’d do it all again.

  Anything to save them.

  Click, click, thwack. The round lock at the top of the door flicks open first, followed by each one below. The brass, chrome, and silver knobs rotate quickly and snap to the unlocked position: all from the other side of the door. It’s not possible to unlock them from the inside. I should know; I’ve tried a hundred times over.

  I take the two generous steps from my place by the window to the red suede couch and sink into it, lying back with arms roped across my chest, my eyes closed.

  The door creaks open.

  My heart accelerates, and not in the way it might at seeing a loved one, but in the nervous anticipation of an enemy about to walk into my life.

  Like he does twice a week.

  Silence hangs in the air for several moments while I breathe slowly—pretending to sleep. I’m not playing his game today.

  The smell of fresh donuts mixed with strong coffee enters with him, the delicious aroma assaulting my senses and making my mouth water. It’s a Kenyan blend, which he knows is my favorite. Trying to ignore it is no use, not with the smooth smell growing stronger and stronger until steam dampens my face. The jerk must be waving right it under my nose. Yet I keep my eyes closed, my face masked.

  “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.”

  If my resolve snapping had a sound that would be crack. “More like Rapunzel,” I say, a dig at my captivity.

  When I open my eyes, that ridiculous half-a-dumbass smile stretches across his face. He tips his chin toward the corrugated, disposable cup in his hand. CityBoy.

  Really? He thinks we can be friends, huh? Just because he brings a coffee from a place I once loved. That was a lifetime ago and we can never go back. Not now, not ever.

  “Take it.” He inches the cup closer to me. “I walked halfway across town to get this for you.” He shoves the offering further under my nose. If I opened my mouth and sucked in the air, I’d probably taste the sweetened coffee.

  Giving him the satisfaction of taking the cup irks me, but it’s been so long since I drank the smooth, rich nectar that only CityBoy can perfect. Stupid hand has a mind of its own, closing around the warm cup. Now that it’s in my hands, there’s no point missing out. I’ve already let him win, so I may as well get some enjoyment out of my miserable predicament.

  “It’s been a long week . . .” He relaxes into the couch, flipping a pair of bronze coins through his fingers. I stop listening. No matter how he treats me, we’re not friends. We haven’t been for years.

  We never will be again.

  ACT I

  The Storm

  Chapter One

  Mae

  We’re too late.

  The minute I step out of the alley with my crew of resistance fighters I can tell. Blood, so much blood everywhere. And the silence. You’d think in the midst of such horror it’d be loud: people screaming, wailing, crying even. But it’s not. The silence is almost deafening.

  My heart constricts like someone tugged at its laces.

  We’re too late.

  We can only help the survivors now and that’s the horrid truth. On autopilot, I walk then run to the closest victim. A woman sprawled on the ground, blood covering every inch of her, so I can barely make out the color of her blouse. She moans when I hold my fingers to her neck, checking for a pulse.

  Not too late for her, thank god.

  “I’ve called 911.” Will’s voice echoes through my mind. Even with the lack of inflection due to the telcom I can hear the sorrow in his words.

  “Damn it,” Jax says through the same tech device, “we’re getting later each time.”

  And he’s right, we are. More people perish with each attack and all because we can’t reach them in time to intercept the Collective. I’ve never felt so useless.

  The woman groans—a long drawn-out noise like no other I’ve ever heard—and slowly sound returns to the scene. Moaning, whimpering, noises of pain, and my friends’ voices pitched low and soothing as we reassure the wounded it’s okay. They’ll be okay. Even though sometimes we know that they won’t. Like this woman. Each ragged breath now comes a little shorter and sharper than her last. I hate the damn Collective for stealing people’s lives, but she doesn’t need to see that.

  “I’m here. You’re okay.” I rest my hand on her sticky arm.

  Her breath hitches, she gives a last weak heave and she’s gone, her head rolling to the side.

  We are too late.

  The saddest thing in this whole mess is that I can’t cry. I’ve seen so much it’s like nothing’s left in me but hatred. My compassion is drained. I glance around trying to decide where I’m needed most, but too many dead and wounded lay in the open-air amphitheater that it’s impossible to know where to turn next. In places, the bodies pile on top of each other, just lying where they fell.

  So much loss and devastation and for what? Because the Collective want to send a message to us; that they’re in control, that the resistance is hurting more people, not helping. Somehow I don’t think us backing off will help.

  A guy walks toward me, his T-shirt—an advertisement for the main band—a tattered mess with his bloody shoulder peeking through a gaping hole. His eyes lock on me, but they’re unseeing, glassed over like he’s retreated inside his mind. He steps over and around those on the ground as if he knows right where they are without looking.

  Hate isn’t a strong enough word for how I feel about the Collective.

  I dread the day we might turn up to find one of my friends, like Cynnie or Xane. I’m not sure how I’d react, but I like to think I won’t see them. That neither of my freethinking friends would be involved in something like this, regardless of agent duty.

  It doesn’t take long before the wail of sirens fills the air and as the paramedics arrive on the scene, we’re no longer needed. Jax and Will both appear at my side looking as somber as I feel. Today we have another person who�
��s seen too much, left with too little, and has no choice but to port with us. We can’t leave him for the Collective’s clean up.

  Jax takes a look at the ragged, zombie-like guy and says, “I’ll catch a ride with one of the others.”

  I nod, any words I might have had stolen by this day’s horror, then grab my charge and Will to port us out. We land in the port room as the shift changes. Martha bustles forward. She must have already heard of this attack, because she’s here, waiting to help out with casualties.

  I pass the guy off to her, leaving Will and I free to report straight to Beau.

  We’re not the only ones. A dozen of us pile into the room, perching on the edges of bookcases, sitting on the ancient couches, or sinking to the floor cross-legged—our response team, beaten and blood covered, and the people who’ve dealt with Collective fallout before, like Beau. The past two months have taken a toll on us all, but no one more so than him. He somehow looks older, more tired than when we first met.

  We’re supposed to be protecting the innocent, stopping the Collective, but these attacks are becoming more and more frequent and the targets larger. We’re just not big enough to spread ourselves around and it’s heartbreaking. And if that weren’t bad enough, the Collective cover their tracks with scapegoats just to keep their secrets; political, terrorist, raving lunatics, they’ve dropped the blame on all kinds. It’s like this is our punishment for attacking them. Or maybe it’s Manvyke trying to capture the keys. He does still want them after all.

  With both his palms flat against the window frame, Beau’s shoulders rise as if to recollect himself after the news. “So it was a rock concert?” he asks, turning around and wringing his dark hands.

  “Yes.” Jax’s tone is emotionless, dead like all those poor people.

  “How many?”

  “Too many.” I don’t mean to snap, but it’s all too much for my frayed nerves.

  “Maybe a few hundred,” Will says.

  Beau’s long sigh ruffles his dark, gray-peppered moustache. He crosses the room and slumps into an old couch then glances at Charlie, another resistance leader, the one who calls this safe house home. Charlie’s all right, if a little on the over-relaxed side. Sometimes it seems like he’s more worried about keeping his rounded belly full than maintaining tight security around this base. He’s a good guy though; believes the Collective need to pull their heads in and let us run our own country; a dream, from which we seem to be moving further and further away. And these attacks are just the tip of the arrow. They’re nothing compared to the suppression of tech, or manipulation of world events. Both ways the Collective interfere without conscience. The leaders’ gazes meet for a moment then Beau slowly shakes his head, his multicolored beanie still in place despite the warming weather.

  “It’s payback,” he says.

  No one utters a word. We just sneak glances at each other that pose the question, Payback for what?

  “For me and Jax?” I ask.

  Beau looks to me sitting on the floor. His eyes boring into mine, then he glances away, the tip of his tongue gliding across his bottom lip. “No. Not for your escape, for our attack on their community.”

  “Whatever the cause,” Charlie cuts in, “it doesn’t matter. We have to make it stop.”

  “How?” Jax laughs, deep and low, and with an edge I never thought I’d hear from him: cold and icy. With his hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket and his legs crossed as he leans against one of the huge bookcases, his casual look contradicts his tone.

  I blow out a long breath and climb to my feet. I can’t do this anymore. Sitting here dissecting the attack feels almost inhumane in light of what we saw. I need a break to recoup and get ready to face another day and its disasters. We can talk about this tomorrow. “Do you need me for anything else?”

  I wring my sticky, blood-covered hands and Beau’s focus drops to them. He shakes his head, his jaw clenching. “No. Thank you.”

  With a quick nod, I leave the room. The woman’s blood on my body is a reminder of what we didn’t achieve and even though I don’t want to forget, it makes me feel. And feeling is something it would be nice to turn off.

  I descend to the basement in the hope of finding Dad. It’s been too long since I’ve seen him and all the death is like a slap to recall I have family that needs me. Family I need to see and hug, tell that I love them. But when I reach the underground room, he isn’t there, so I drag myself back upstairs.

  After gathering a fresh change of clothes, I head out to clean up.

  The bathroom here, in the city safe house, is more communal than I’d prefer. Not a lot of privacy, with a bunch of cubicles nestled in beside each other. Once inside, I can’t even sink to the tiled floor and let the warm water wash over me because there’s a foot high gap between the bottom of the door and the floor. So I stand, forcing my tired legs to hold me up a little longer while the water runs over my body, heating my skin and snaking rivers of pink down my tummy and around my feet.

  The blood of innocent victims.

  Closing my eyes, I tip my head back, under the water, so I don’t have to see it. But the face of the poor woman who I held blazes behind my closed eyes. The sight much worse than that of her blood mixed with several others washing down the drain.

  Sometimes we make it to the attacks in time. We manage to stop them, but not always. Not today. If we don’t reach the location before the Collective leave, then no way can we overpower or intercept. If I had any doubts about the Collective’s integrity—if I’d thought there was some good in them—this string of events sure set me straight. Manvyke is pure evil. Maybe there’s some good hiding within their ranks, like Cynnie, but right now it’s completely overshadowed.

  The constant drum of water pelting against the tiles reminds me I’ve been in here for too long, but there’s something about the feel of heat pounding my skin that’s reassuring.

  “Mae?” I didn’t hear Lilly come in.

  “Yeah,” I shout over the noise.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  The long moment of silence is a stark reminder that she’s still not herself; the old Lilly would have called me out on the lie. Garrett’s death took its toll on her just like these attacks are taking their toll on the rest of us. Breaking us apart, from the heart outward. Even though I don’t want to talk about today right now, or any of the days like it, it would be nice to have my friend back.

  “Umm.” She doesn’t know what to say. Not my Lilly at all, but then I’m hardly the same Mae either.

  I wait.

  “The boys are going to have a game of pool after they clean up. I thought it might be . . .”

  Might be what? Normal, when nothing else is? “Fun?”

  “Yeah . . . that. You should bring your camera.”

  “Okay.”

  After a few beats of silence, it’s obvious she’s left so I start rinsing my hair. The water cascading past my ears drowns out any other sound. Except my mind; nothing stops that. I’m not sure how fun a game will be; something so mundane when there are families right now learning that their loved ones are dead. And God only knows when the Collective will strike again. We’ve finished our duty for today, but some days it feels like I should be sitting on standby 24/7, because the more of us who respond the higher the chance of intervention. At least, that’s the hope.

  “Mae?”

  She’s still there.

  “What is it, Lil?”

  “I heard it was a bad day. I’m sorry.”

  “Me too, Lilly . . . me too.”

  I shut off the water and grab my towel from the hook on the back of the cubicle door. As I’m drying myself, her soft footsteps cross the bathroom and the heavy door creaks. I pull on my favorite jeans, and a loose-fitting blue blouse, followed by a lightweight cardigan. The clothes Lilly brought me before all this started, back when we were at the farm, hiding from agents. When my dad wasn’t the memory-robbed man he is now. It seems forever
ago, but it has only been a few months. Months I don’t particularly feel like counting back through.

  I should go and find Dad, but I don’t have the energy right now. Tomorrow. I’ll visit him tomorrow when I can give him my full attention. I should also be thinking about my mother, but in the wake of everything that’s happening how can I? These attacks affect thousands of people, and Beau says we can’t risk going into Collective territory again so soon, so there’s no choice but to push thoughts of her aside, for now.

  Heaving a sigh, I step out of the cubicle, run a brush through my long, unruly hair, and flick the ends down when they try to curl up. Lilly’s makeup stash sprawled over the vanity catches my eye and I almost—almost—put a little on. But we’re just going to the common room for a game of pool with the boys. My heart does a little flip at the thought of free time with my favorite people. Gosh no, that needs to stop.

  Definitely no makeup.

  No camera either. That’s a worse idea than the makeup even if Lil was only trying to make things normal. Truth is, I don’t want to give either of the guys the wrong idea since telling them both I needed time. Romance is the last thing on my mind right now. Or at least it should be.

  After taking my dirty clothes to the laundry, giving them a quick rinse, and wincing at the pink water bleeding out of the black fabric, I finally shove them into the machine. Black’s good for hiding blood in the midst of an attack. Nothing can hide it afterward though.

  I traipse downstairs to join my friends. This city base has a better-stocked common room than our former home at the farm. As I round the corner into the dim, slightly dingy room, three sets of eyes look up from the green billiard table. My attention flits from Jax’s brooding wall-lean, to Will’s fake cheerfulness, to the black dog curled up by the fire, finally landing on Lilly in a newly formed habit. “Who am I playing with?”

  “I—” Will says, at same time Jax answers, “me.”

  They exchange one of their challenging stares and Will’s now ridiculously thick arms flex against his T-shirt. A nice side effect of our constant training.